


It's not Christmas without you, Jason Todd

by biirdiie



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, IM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, batfam secret santa 2017, dick and jason are cinnamon buns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-25 22:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13222707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biirdiie/pseuds/biirdiie
Summary: Underneath the mistletoeI saw a face all aglowlast year this time.Now I'm staying home aloneand my house is not a homewithout that little brother of mine.(The O-Jays)For AHaplessBystander, Merry Belated Christmas and all the best in the New Year! Lots of love xoxo <3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AHaplessBystander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHaplessBystander/gifts).



> Man this title sucks  
> I'm sosososososo sorry I'm posting so late.  
> I really wanted to make this perfect and even with the additional time the mods gave me I still haven't completely finished.  
> I've sweated and bled over this first chapter so my Secret Santa doesn't think I've abandoned them.  
> Please enjoy, and the next chapters will be up soon  
> (albeit my blood-crusted, cracked and broken fingers...I'm going as fast as I can please stop hitting m-ouch!!)  
> At least it's a ruler and not a crowbar hahaha (kill me)

Dick huffs and grunts as he struggles to pull himself through his old bedroom window. He mentally curses himself for choosing a bedroom on the fifth floor of the manor when he had first moved in with Bruce. Sure, he had snuck out and slinked back inside many nights with ease when he was still Robin, but he was a lot smaller back then, and he was definitely lankier. Now, Dick had his muscular arms poised on the window sill trying to wedge his torso, hips, ass and legs through the window. Oh man, he hoped Alfred nor Bruce didn't wake up to find him stuck here. Many a night Alfred would catch Dick closing the latch on the window and then take him by the ear and drag him to be disciplined and berated by Bruce. Dick shook the memories from his mind and with a final tug the rest of his body popped through the window and he fumbled onto the carpet underneath.

Ouch.

That could have gone a lot smoother. Dick winced and rubbed at the small of his back where earlier tonight he had received a well aimed kick from a criminal that escaped from his holding at Blüdhaven county jail. The ache as well as the multiple lacerations striping his body (courtesy of the aforementioned knife-wielding crook) reminded Dick why he was back in Gotham and was technically breaking into Bruce's residence. With only a special kind of inept, when Dick moved out of the manor and bestowed unto himself his new role as Nightwing, he didn't stock his apartment with any first aid. None at all. Not even bandages that he could have easily gotten had he just skipped down the stairs of his building and bought some from the pharmacy on the ground floor.

Okay, this is not the time to be judging himself. It was a common mistake, right?

Dick picks himself up off the floor and tiptoes out of the bedroom and into the hallway. On his way to the staircase, he passes Alfred's bedroom. From their text conversation, Alfred was currently in Hawaii on a well-deserved vacation forced upon him by Bruce. Dick smiles to himself as he pictures the scene of Bruce ushering the butler out the door, stuffing his luggage into the trunk, fisting the roof of the taxi and waving with an beaming smile as the taxi turns out of the driveway with an upset Alfred giving him a look of utter betrayal.

At the end of the hallway the familiar sight of soft yellow light pouring out from a slightly ajar door makes Dick roll his eyes. This was why it was Alfred who caught him sneaking in every night.

Inside the room, Dick's heart melts at what he sees. Bruce is passed out in an armchair (the comfiest in entire manor, a ten year old Dick had decreed). The laptop on his knees threatens to fall to the floor with each deep inhale Bruce takes. Dick takes in Bruce's sleeping form. The hard lines on his face from years of tragedy and crime fighting are softened by the the glow of the tiffany lamp on the ancient wooden desk that he is sitting at. Dick sighs and carefully takes the laptop from Bruce and sets it down quietly. Before he closes it, Dick glimpses a mugshot of a young boy with black hair and eyebrows furrowed above threatening green eyes. The murderous stare down the camera lens is enough to make Dick shudder. Yikes. The crazies just keep getting younger and younger. Hopefully Batman would put away this kid before Dick had to encounter him. He closes the laptop and with practised ease, Dick fishes a blanket off of a hook on the adjacent wall (this frequent occurrence of Bruce working himself to death inclined Alfred to make sure a blanket was hanging on a wall in every room in the manor). He fans out the blanket before settling it over his kinda-sorta-dad, tucking it up to his neck and making sure the blanket is covering as much of the slumbering man as possible. He smiles at Bruce a last time before he creeps backwards and closes the door.

Despite the touching scene that had just unfolded, Dick doesn't want to be caught by an angry, confused, and sleep-deprived Batman, so he swears to quickly yet quietly find the first aid, fix himself up, and find some other exit besides that stupid window he came in through.

At the bottom of the staircase, Dick scrunches his eyebrows in thought. Was the med room this way or...? Yes.

No, _wait_.

Actually, yes.

Okay, he has to move faster because now, blood is dripping to the floor and since Alfred isn't here, Dick himself has to mop it up before he leaves.

 

 

**Clink**

 

 

Dick's head snaps to the right. Whatever or whoever is making that sound should not be here right now. Dick mockingly throws up his arms. Of all the nights he comes back to the mansion, some robber chose tonight to break in and steal the Wayne's precious belongings. Whatever the person is doing, the shuffles of their movements and skirts of their feet across the floor are coming from the kitchen. And, of course the kitchen is in the opposite direction of the med bay.

Dick presses his back against the hallway wall and edges himself towards the kitchen. When he reaches the door he stops and strains his ears and hears the suction of... the fridge door opening?

Dick cocks his head in confusion and trains his ears back to the source. He hears the familiar peel of saran wrap from a plate (Robin's need midnight snacks too! C'mon, he was a growing boy-slash-vigilante, and patrolling with Batman all night worked up an enormous and unquenchable appetite).

Okay, either Dick is going a little woozy from blood loss or his uninvited guest is helping themselves to a snack in the middle of their little heist. No time to dawdle, Dick has wounds to clean and apparently an inexperienced criminal butt to kick. He takes a mindful breath in, mentally counts down from three, and then somersaults around the corner with his fists poised and braced in front of him.

_Oh_

This was not what he expected, at all.

All Dick can say is that he's glad he kept his domino mask on. Dick instinctively keeps his fists high and his crouch low, but he can't help his jaw unhinging a little as he tries to work out the scene before him. The bulb inside the fridge lights up the look of complete surprise etched on the face of the preteen frozen in place. His cheeks are completely stuffed and there are bits of crumbs stuck to his lower lip. In his hand is a plate (a plastic one; Alfred never did trust Bruce or Dick that much with the finer glass dishes) and in his other hand is, what Dick believes is, the remaining half of a sandwich. The kid doesn't break eye contact with the vigilante. Dick isn't sure if the kid is more surprised by being caught in the middle of stuffing his own face, or being caught by Nightwing which, admittedly, is grounds for even greater confusion because why the heck would Nightwing be lurking in Bruce Wayne's mansion and not fighting crime back in Blüdhaven?

While Dick is caught up in his thoughts, the intruder twitches into action and wordlessly tosses the plate and sandwich back into the fridge and slams the door shut. The noise breaks Dick from his thoughts and he pounces forward as the kid dashes to the cover of the island in the middle of the kitchen. Nightwing catches himself on the counter of the island and both he and the kid lurch and jerk side to side, trying to psyche the other out into making the first move. The charade goes on for almost a full minute before an impatient growl rumbles from Dick's throat and he flips forward over the island. The kid yelps when Dick snags his sleeve and then he turns to swing a pan at Dick's face.

When on Earth did this kid get his hands on a pan???

Dick dodges the attack with an effortless shrug of his head to the side and simultaneously locks a predatory grip on the offending wrist, yanks it behind the kid's back, and shoves him up against the wall. To anybody who doesn't know of the happenings inside the manor, it would sound like Dick was murdering some poor, defenceless child. But he and Bruce had sparred often during Dick's training, and one can only have the police called on them so many times that said police eventually deem the neighbours (guilty as charged of these frequent calls) without credit and, to add salt to the wound, of auditory delusions.

The kid squirms and twists in Dick's grasp, but Dick's hold is firm. The kid can not be older than 14, and he knows he's going to hate himself for it, but Dick has to interrogate the little sucker. He reaffirms his grasp tightly, forcing a pained gasp from his opponent.

“What are you doing here?”

 

Silence.

Dick doesn't so much as sigh with trained patience.

“ _I said_ , what are you doing _here_?”

 

Nothing.

Dick squeezes the kids wrist and tugs it up higher, bending it at a painful angle hard enough to elicit a yelp.

“I don't think you understood me so I'm going to make this clear for you.” Dick leans in and hovers so that he is breathing right into the kid's ear. “You can tell me what you're doing here or I can make this very painful and _then_ you will tell me why you're-”

“That's enough, Richard.”

Dick's shoulders tense involuntarily and he groans, turning to face who he knows is Bruce Wayne aka Batman aka kinda-sorta-dad who is probably unhappy being woken up. When Bruce flicks the light-switch on, Dick can't help but cower a little in shame under Bruce's menacing stink-eye. Bruce takes in Nightwing's dishevelled appearance, noting beads of blood oozing from multiple rips in his uniform. He regards Dick without so much as a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Why are you here, Richard?”

Dick's eyes dart around the kitchen, hoping to magically find a lie to come up with among the tiled walls. Why is he such a moron? When he gets back to Blüdhaven, the first thing Dick is going to do is buy those stupid band-aids from that stupid pharmacy.

An idea pops in his mind and he brings his hands down on the kid's shoulders (oops, forgot this little guy was even here), twirls him around and presents him to Bruce with an outstretch of his arms and the fakest smile he can conjure.

"Merry Christmas dad!"

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took a long time for me to update. I was feeling frustrated because what I wanted to write wasn't translating to paper (or online text in this case) the way I imagined it in my head. Nevertheless, I did my best and I hope this chapter still piques your curiosity.

3 years later

 

 

 

Dick sits atop a building in Gotham. He had started his night in Bludhaven, but sometime after handcuffing a robber to a street light pole and before incapacitating a mugger with a crotch shot, Nightwing had reached the city limits of his hometown.

His arms are crossed tightly across his chest, his hands pulling the fabric of his uniform in a desperate grip. He tilts his head back, chin to the sky. Jesus, Gotham was an ugly city and yet it didn’t snow so gently and beautifully anywhere else he had ever been. Each deep breath in stung Dick's nostrils and every breath out raked the back of his throat. He watched interested in the frosty forms his breaths created in front of his face. A cold chill ran through body and he held himself even tighter.

Had Gotham always been this cold?

Dick reached behind himself and lifted a small box from his utility belt. He held the box to his ear and shook it gingerly, smiling at the familiar sound the contents inside made. Shaking it again, it was clear that the carton was nearly empty. Dick would have to save the remaining of whatever was left for another time.

The staccato ring of his earpiece broke him out of his thoughts. He considered letting it ring until the person on the other end gave up, but the hope of good news made him answer the call.

“Nightwing.”

“Bruce.” Dick smirked at the surprised grunt he heard on the other end of the line.

“Nightwing, you know we don’t use names when we are on patrol.”

“It’s been six months since we last spoke, and the first thing you do is scold me,” Dick rubbed his hand over the pang of hurt that thudded in his chest. The sound of Bruce's voice gave Dick a flashback, and he gripped his head painfully to try and shake the memory away. Like many sleepless nights before tonight, the memory played before his eyes without his consent.

_Bruce had watched his first son fall to his knees on the floor, his arms pushing into the ground and tears gushing down his scarlet cheeks creating a puddle inches from his face. Bruce himself was bearing the heavy weight of grief on his shoulders, and the bitter resentment of fate in his mind._

_“J-J-Ja-Jay…” Dick gurgled._

_Bruce winced at the choking gasps of breath and he bent over to place a reassuring hand on Dick’s shoulder. An arm struck out and smacked Bruce’s hand away before it made contact, making it sting. Bruce withdrew a step back from Dick._

_"This is a lot to take in at once Dick.” Bruce put his hands on his hips. “Let’s go upstairs and we can-“_

_He was cut off at the sound of Dick shuffling, bringing himself up off the floor like a paralysed man who could now walk with his own legs. His legs half bent, his back still curved, and without lifting his head, Dick began to speak._

_“H-H..” He fought the weakness in his knees “How could y-you let this h-hap-pen……_

_Bruce watched his son with wide eyes and attempted to reach out to him a second time._

_"There wasn’t enough time, Dick, I only lear-"_

_“Y-you. l-let. this. happen,” A brief pause, stuttering breaths in were the only sound_ _“, BRUCE!”_

_Without a moment to comprehend, Bruce froze as Dick stood up, and dug his hands into Bruce’s shoulders, curling his fingers into the tight muscles there._

_“Why didn’t you call me??” Each word was enunciated with a hard jerk, pulling and shoving Bruce forward and back by his shoulders, shaking him._

_“WHY._

_DIDN’T._

_YOU._

_CALL._

_ME??”_

_“WHY._

_AREN’T._

_YOU._

_CRYING??”_

_“W_ _HERE._

_IS._

_HE._

_NOW??”_

_“H-HOW. COULD. YOU. LET. HIM. DIE??”_

_“BRUCE??”_

_“WHERE. IS. HE. NOW??”_

_“WHERE. IS. HE. NOW??_

_“BRUCE! TELL. ME.”_

_“WHERE. IS. JASON??”_

_“WHERE IS-“_

_“WHERE-“_

_“where-“_

_“where….”_

_Dick’s hands softened their grips on Bruce, and he felt his hands slide off and droop in place at his sides. He still hadn’t brought his face up to meet Bruce. His eyes lingering on the concrete, unable to make out the detail of the floor with the welling of tears building on the surface of his eyes. Bruce stood stock still. He ignored the burning in his shoulders and kept his focus on Dick. In his peripheral, the familiar clang of metal under waxed shoes indicated Alfred making his way down the spiral staircase into the batcave. Bruce turned to meet Alfred’s eyes, hoping he would find the warning in his stare._

_“_ _Dick, please, let’s eat and we can talk after you calm down,” Bruce began to turn back to face Dick, “We can’t do anything right n-“_

_What happened next is still a bit of a blur. He remembers the sound of porcelain shattering on the ground, the shuffle of Alfred reaching for him as his back slams to the floor. He doesn’t remember how he ended up on the floor, though it doesn’t take much to figure out Dick swung and slammed his fist into the side of his head. You can only break your nose so many times and not know how it got broken. His vision was swimming, and he remembers the struggle of getting to his feet, but he doesn’t succeed. He blacks out at the sound of Dick’s motorcycle ignition and the screech of the tires as he drives off._

“I’m not scolding you Nightwing” Bruce flatly stated, though Dick could picture his lips pursed in a tight line “Red Robin has been trying to contact you all night and you know he needs your help.”

Ah yes.

Timothy Drake.

The newest (and admittedly the smartest) Robin. Dick liked him. He was a good kid, with a good heart and good intentions. Although he was intellectually the most like Bruce, his physical features were much softer. No hard lines etched into his face from years of battling Gotham’s insane and twisted criminals. Baby callouses were just now forming on his knuckles and his fingers, as he had learned from Tim himself as they trained together. Often, they had to pause mid-fight, so Tim could fetch some sports tape or wrap to nurse the red burning bumps of skin. Of all the things about Tim, Dick admired the strands of jet black hair that curled just above his shoulders. Kid had sweet hair, and he looked adorable as heck when he pulled it into a little ponytail. Timothy was sweet, and Dick was happy to have him as a little brother.

But Tim wasn’t Jason. And again, the reality of Jason’s departure crashed down onto Dick like a rainstorm in the middle of a sunny day. Dick eyed the carton in his hand with heavy lids.

“Tim needs my help?”

“Nightwing…”

“Or you need to use Tim to convince me to come to the manor.”

Dick heard Bruce sigh deeply. “Alfred misses you, Dick,"

A pause,

"It would mean a lot to him if you came for Christmas dinner tonight.”

Dick felt a guilty surge in his chest. The picture of Alfred greeting him at the door, wearing the plush antlers Dick had hot glued to a headband when he was seven. He had texted Alfred, and they spoke on the phone every so often, but Dick hadn’t seen him since…

Well.

“It’s Tim’s first Christmas at the manor as well. This would be a good opportunity for you two to bond and for him to feel at home.”

That part was true. And Dick had a good time hanging out with Tim. He could see Tim struggling to plink the ornaments at the top branches of the massive Christmas tree Alfred somehow magically brought home every year. Dick would see the stump of a missing tree on the manor grounds once the snow had melted, but he couldn’t imagine Alfred lugging a 20ft pine tree behind him after chopping the thing down himself. Or who knows. But he could also see Jason at his first Christmas at the manor too. Dick remembered standing back, hands on his hips, and a cheeky smirk on his face as he watched Jason wobble on his tip toes as he reached up to place the star on the top of the Christmas tree. Dick had huffed and offered his hand out to Jason. _Let me do it,_ Dick had said. But Jason had turned only to give him a scornful look. _I can do it on my own,_ Jason had protested. He still had the mindset of when he was living on the streets, where Bruce had discovered him. Surviving all on his own and by himself. But ten minutes later with a bead of sweat quivering on his brow and aching shoulders, Jason relinquished the star to Dick with a huff of embarrassment and his lips in a frown. _Next year for sure kiddo_ , Dick smiled. He rustled Jason’s hair, and he just barely caught the blush that crept to Jason’s cheeks.

Dick shook his head to himself. He thumbed at the carton, the print on the box illegible and faded from age. With practiced ease, he flicked his wrist and a single cigarette popped from the box. He brought his gaze back up to the horizon.

“Work has been busy,” he lied “the department needs everybody to chip in for the holidays.” The line was silent for a few moments. “Commissioner would have my head if I didn't.”

“Next time then.”

“Next time.” repeated Dick.

Dick pinched his earpiece and tossed it to the side. The buzz of the dead line was something he never noticed before but now it droned on in his ear. Distracting like a cafe that was a tad too loud. Dick craned his neck down and mouthed the exposed cigarette between his lips. He fished for his lighter in one of his back pockets but inhaled sharply when his fingers brushed against the handle of a gun, strapped to his belt where he used to keep his escrima sticks. He had not admitted it to anyone, not even to himself, but Dick didn't feel safe patrolling at night without the reassuring pressure of the gun pressing nuzzled against the small of his back. He brought the lighter to his lips and cupped the cigarette as the tip singed with life. Dick's chest expanded as he took a deep breath in and then he collapsed backward, reaching his arms behind him, his palms pressed flat to the rooftop concrete to hold himself upright, and let out an audibly long, thin plume of smoke from his nostrils. Dick craned his neck to watch the snowfall again.

A chill rang through his body. Already, the comfort of smoking Jason's cigarettes was gone, and the reality of his death crept inside Dick once again, anxiety blossoming in his chest and tingling in his fingertips. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bad person my goodness. I'm a real life cold-blooded procrastinator if there ever was one.  
> I'm sorry AHaplessBystander that it took four months to post another chapter, _and_ that this fic is taking forever to finish.  
>  I initially planned for 3 chapters, but I've decided to break up chapter 3 into two parts, so the fourth chapter will be the last one.

_Dick can't blame anybody else except for himself for getting into this situation._

_He had argued with Bruce about it, until he realized he wasn't going to get the permission that he wanted from him. Fuck Bruce. He didn't even need his permission, but he felt so brainwashed by loyalty into believing he did. When it dawned on Dick that he could make the decision himself, he did, and he came to the conclusion that, three years after Jason's death, the Joker needed to die._

_Months of articulate planning lead up to this night. Sleepless nights were spent sitting at a small desk in his apartment, nursing a cup of coffee and mindlessly scrolling through pages of GCPD reports he did not have the security clearance to. Dick didn't even like coffee. He blamed Tim entirely for this new addiction._

_The first time Nightwing had patrolled with Tim as Red Robin, they had met on top of a building that Batman had given them the coordinates to. Until Bruce gave them further instructions, they idled in silence until Tim produced a thermos from somewhere beneath his cape. Dick had given him an incredulous stare but Tim only shrugged and sipped hungrily at his dark roast. “No wonder you don't sleep Timmy” Dick had said offhandedly. It wasn't a jab, it was just a fact. Also, both Bruce and Tim had given up on chastising Dick whenever he used their real names on missions. Tim's legendary stink eye no longer worked on him. Red Robin took in a long swish from the thermos and huffed in satisfaction, giving Dick a sidelong smirk. “Sleep is for the weak.” Dick shook his head and rolled his eyes behind his domino mask yet he couldn't help smiling to himself._

_The memory had only temporarily settled the butterflies in Dick's stomach. He had woken up to the incredible smell of what he thought was rust. It was metallic and tangy, and it was so strong he could taste it as he breathed through his nose. A rag was pulled tightly over his eyes and another was rolled into a ball and stuffed into his mouth. When Dick had came to, he choked at the cotton pressing against his tongue and desperately tried to spit it out. The taste of his own blood was soaked into the cloth and it startled him. Dick immediately became aware of the dried blood that had drained down the back of his throat. Usually Bruce or Tim came home with the nosebleeds; Dick too graceful and slippery to ever catch a fist to the face._

 

That was a few hours ago. Now, Dick was slumped over the chair he was tied to. His hands dangled lifelessly at the small of his back where they were secured with handcuffs. The fabric of his uniform at his wrists was completely ripped open from when Dick rubbed them raw fighting his restraints. And if Dick had ever had a headache, the one he was sporting right now was the worst. It was one of those ones that felt like a heartbeat, constantly beating and pounding at the crown of his head.

_Nauseous_. He felt _so_ nauseous. He fights the contents of his stomach threatening to crawl up his throat, the butterflies continuing to flutter inside him waiting in the calm before the storm. Death by choking on one's own vomit was not how Dick wanted to go out. Unsurprisingly, this was not the first time the thought occurred to him tonight.

 

_Click_

 

Dick jerks in his seat. He hears chains unraveling and slinking to the ground, followed by a thunk which he presumed was a padlock. The door slams open, crashing into the adjacent wall loudly. A regular tempo of clicks of shoes on the ground approach Dick. The footsteps draw nearer until they stop right in front of Dick. The blindfold is unceremoniously yanked from Dick's head and he blinks rapidly against the assault of the fluorescent light flooding his vision. When he can finally see clearly, Dick takes in the figure looming over him.

“Ah! The boy's awake!” Joker rakes his fingers into Dick's hair and in an act of fake intimacy. Bile in Dick's throat creeps us his throat and looms at the back of his mouth at his captor's unveil.

“How's your head kiddo? Feeling a little sick are we?” Joker claps a hand mockingly to stifle the giggles escaping him. “Well it's about to get worse.”

Joker steps back and allows Dick to survey their surroundings. Dick recognizes the building as some sort of abandoned warehouse. The ceiling above him is high, and stacked against the walls are boxes which, he assumes is safe to guess, containing whatever Gotham criminals import and trade within the city. If tradition hold true, probably money. Or drugs.

Both?

Dick settles on both.

It doesn't take long until Dick realizes that Joker is being too quiet. He takes in the clowns nonchalant stance, arms folded over his chest, hips jutted to one side, and one of his feet tapping against the ground. His entire frame screams of some sinister idea boiling in that unpredictable mind of his. A plan that requires an action from Dick to unfold. If that is not enough proof of the clown's crazy intentions, the inhumanely high smile pushing up against Joker's equally unnaturally high cheekbones is the dead giveaway. Something is very wrong. Again, Dick flinches at the onslaught of the metallic, rusty smell he encountered when he had first woken up here. Realization finally clicks and Dick, now that his eyes have finally adjusted to the light, finds the source of the intense smell tinging the air.

All around the warehouse blood is spattered on every surface. It looks like a kindergarten class was left alone to their own devices with nothing except tubs of red paint and a crazy daisy sprinkler. Sweat begins to bead on Dick's forehead and at the nape of his neck and the sound of his heart pumping faster deafens everything except for Joker's snickering. An especially painful pang of panic blossoms in his chest and spreads outwards to tingle like sparks of electricity in his fingertips.

“Hey hey calm down now kiddo! It's not so bad! Just a few spurts of blood here an there....nothing to get all fussy about.” Dick gives Joker a terrified stare which is met with a wink followed by more, louder giggling. The butterflies inside of Dick stir frantically and take flight in a frenzy. According to his internal catalogue of all panic attacks, he registers this as a Category 1 Hurricane. No point in even trying to sugar coat it as a Tropical Storm, or even a Gale. That is more likened to the time Deathstroke held a sword to Dick's throat when he was still Robin.

Dick's body then acts instinctively and his muscle memory takes control over the anxiety spreading inside of him. He listens to Bruce's voice talking him through the panic clouding his mind.

Breathe...

Breathe...

_Bruce and himself, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Batcave facing each other._

In through your nose.

_Dick following Bruce's example, inhaling, his shoulders rising and his chest expanding._

Out through your mouth. Letting the air drain from his lungs. _As slow as possible and not all at once, Bruce had commanded_.

“Oh come now! Even the _other_ boy blunder didn't freak out as much as you are right now.”

 .

_._

 .

Dick whines and jerks frantically at the handcuffs, chafing his wrists until he can feel them dampen as they dig into the first layers of his skin. His toes curl and he twists his ankles in circles trying to undo the rope tying them to the legs of the chair.

Joker cups his hear and leans down to Dick's level. “What was that? Speak louder my dear boy I can't understand a word you're saying!”

Joker hooks his fingers into the gag and it sags down to rest around Dick's neck. Before Joker even has the chance to step back Dick rears his head and crashes his forehead into Joker's face, his nose instantly breaking with a sickening crunch.

“Are we upset about our little baby Robin?” Joker coos. He brings his hand away from his face and snickers while he observes the rivulets of blood streaming between his fingers with fascination. “Positively ruthless you are Nightwing! Oh I didn't see that coming at all.” Joker beams at Dick, his not so pearly whites stained with blood.

“But I can't let you off the hook for that one Kiddo oh no no no,” Joker says as he wags his fingers in Dick's direction, “ What kind of person would I be if I didn't give you as much love and attention as I did to my previous guest?”

Joker huffs and taps his head with a finger. “What to do what to do...you were asleep so much longer than I expected that I'm afraid I won't have time to indulge you with all of the," he dramatically gestures to a table to his right, “fun activities I had planned for us.”

Dick's eyes dart to the paint chipped table the Joker brushes a hand over, drawing Dick's attention to the rusty surgical tools. No sharp edges. Each point and blade has been dulled through overuse. Dick cringes at the thought.

“But don't you worry, that just means we can skip to the best part eh?” Joker stalks back to a dark corner of the room where Dick had noticed a large shape covered with a black tarp. Joker drinks in Dick's anxious stare and lets out a string of giggles, pulling the the tarp down and unveiling a contraption.

“You know what this is hmm?” Dick doesn't answer.

“Yes a projector, that's right! I supposed you might be too young to know what this is but I always knew you were the smarter Robin.” Joker steered the projector behind Dick, and Dick flinched at the Joker's close proximity to him.

“I had missed you so much Nightwing. Kids grow up so fast these days don't they? It feels like it was just yesterday you were Robin. We were all having so much fun that all we have are our memories! No pictures or photo albums to show for it,” he drawled, “sad really.” He continues on. “But this is what I've been so excited to show you all night! I did manage to snag a few pictures of Robin, oh yes.” Dick waits for the punchline. There is always a punchline. He doesn't expect this one however.

“They just aren't of you.” At that moment Joker flips a switch on the side of the projector and it projects an image on the opposite wall.

 

“ _Jason_.” Dick whispers.

That Category 1 Hurricane brewing inside of him? That just got bumped up to a Category 3. The quality of the photo is bad but the pain is clear. Jason in a warehouse, this warehouse, with his arms strung above him, bound, and there is blood all around him.

Dick hears Joker stifle a laugh behind him. “Oh oh oh I remember this one! I hadn't met young Jason up close and personal yet and there was so much we had to talk about.”

Dick can't suppress a wince before he hears the projector click, and a new image of Jason takes the place of the old one. Still Jason. This time he is sitting in a wheelchair and his hands are tied to the arms with thick chains. His face, tilted down, is hidden behind his shaggy, bloodied hair.

“I almost forgot about this one!” Joker exclaims. He doesn't allow Dick to ponder the picture for very long before another click of the projector projects another picture of Jason.

_Click_. Jason on the ground with his arms bound behind him.

_Click_. Jason still on the ground but he is staring at the camera with wide, panicked eyes and the Joker is crouched beside him. The domesticity of the selfie is a sharp contrast to the situation it is taken in.

_Click_. Another selfie. The same fear is in Jason's eyes. He is looking at the Joker, who himself is beaming at the camera with one arm slung around Jason's shoulders.

_Click_. Again same selfie. Jason is making the same expression and the Joker is still smiling but the hand on Jason's shoulder is brandishing a crowbar. Joker is holding a finger to pursed lips. Dick's eyes widen at the implied context, and what he no doubt believes will happen next. The butterflies in Dick's stomach have perished and feel like they have been replaced by hornets. Category 3 is now a Category 5.

_Click_. Jason alone in the picture, his eyes scrunched shut in pain, and the crowbar brought down on his shins.

_Click_. Crowbar at his stomach.

_Click_. Another hit.

_Click_. Jason.

_Click_. More blood.

_Click_

 

_Click_

 

 

 

_Click._


	4. Chapter 4

It has happened before which is disgusting to admit. It's instantaneous too. It gets everywhere, all over the place. Blood normally cools a little between the moment it ejects from its host and when it sprays your entire fucking face like a shower head. But Dick can only feel the blood scorching his skin. 

Dick braves one eye open and meets Joker's eye. The other eye is only a precise hole that, if you squinted, you could see through to the wall on the other side. His body collapses to his knees and his nose makes a sickening crunch when he topples forward and his face smacks onto the concrete floor. 

Dick knew that last picture of Jason was different, only because the mundane click of the projector barely blanketed the cock of a gun.

And so that's it. The Joker, the bane of Gotham for years is dead. This is what Dick wanted. This is what he  _came here for._  Why does it feel so wrong? Why does it feel like by watering a plant, he's killed it? So why has he never felt so terrified in his life than he does right now? It's probably because he can hear the slow approach of heavy footsteps behind him. Of whoever just killed the Joker. Every vertebrae in his Dick's spine seizes with every grind of a heel coming closer. 

Another gunshot slams into the projector making Dick jerk. The photo of Jason blots with holes because the projector has sparked a fire, forever burning away any evidence that Jason Todd was ever here. That he was ever beaten within an inch of his life and then some more. And then died. 

A small billow of wind alerts Dick that the stranger is striding past him. 

And holy Mary Mother and Joseph Dick wants to vomit again. He watches as the stranger strikes the heel of his boot into the projector. Quite the temper, Dick notes. The stranger turns to his left, where the Joker is still dead, laying face forward in a significant pool of his own blood. Now Dick can't watch this part, when the mysterious man raises his leg up and stomps his foot down on the Joker's head. Dick grimaces and turns to face away but he can't tune out the terrifying destruction of bone as the Joker's skull caves under the assault. It finally gives, Dick knows, when he hears the final kick make contact with the floor with the squelch of what he assumes to be whatever is left of the Joker's brain.

It's anything but a lovely tropical paradise in here but sweat is decorating Dick's exposed skin in a ferocious sheen. This was how he is going to die. Wow what's that... the third time he's said that to himself in one night. A new record, he declares. Dick's unrelenting humour is the only quality he has at present that suggests he isn't going completely out of his own mind. 

He can't stop this. All he can do is stare at the spot between the stranger's shoulder blades as they rise and fall in tandem with his heavy breathing. He tries to find a different spot to turn to, but he can't help but look in awe at the mess in front of him. The only way someone's head, like the Joker's right now, looks like that with actual planning would be to put it through a wood chipper. Toss it in a blender for good measure too.

He turns back to the stranger. Oh. He's looking at him. Electric red eyes of the helmet drive into Dick's brown eyes. Dick can't break his stare from this guy and he thinks he can actually  _see_ the murderous rage ebbing off. He loses control of his body. He shrugs his shoulders and pulls at the handcuffs ferociously despite the ring of skin underneath shredded and bloody. Heck, Dick's trying to dislocate anything to free himself right now. 

But then he is free. Not from some sort of incredible human strength Dick has amassed, mind you. 

Dick turns in the chair so fast and slams his full body weight into his arms and shoves into the other man. There's no time to think, just go. 

Just go

Just go!

**JUST GO!**

But a muscular arm shoots out and grabs Dick's wrist. Dick screams and wails and he's tugging back so hard he feels like his hand is going to snap off. 

"Let me go...Let me fucking GO!!!"

"Stop."

His voice is deep, electronic, and commanding and it makes Dick stop still. His knees still quake however. 

"Please just," he starts, tears flowing freely down his face, "I didn't see anything. You might think I care that the Joker's dead. But I don't! I'm glad! I'm happy even, I'm fucking elated I've never been happier in my whole life! I'll go, just please let me go I'llgoI'llgoI'llgoI'llgol please..."

The grip from his wrist is suddenly gone and Dick stops rambling. Then he hears the fizz of escaping air. It sounds like those space station doors in movies. An air pressure lock release. The thud of what he assumes to be the stranger's helmet hits the ground.

"Hey Dick

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"it's me."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a shitty person oh man I feel really bad about this and I wanted it to be really great but I just was so bad at writing this and this is what I was able to come up with.   
> I'm obviously probably not going to sign up for the next batfam christmas secret santa because it would be so bad to make another person wait a WHOLE YEAR for their story to be finished. 
> 
> Bystander I'm sooooooooooooooooo sorry for this ending and that it took so long but it was kinda my plan all along to make it an angsty ending but still it took forever for me to do I'm so sorry.


End file.
